Part 5 (1/2)
Nearly two hours later, Brigham's coach arrived, causing no little stir in the village. Lord Ashburn believed in owning the best, and his traveling equipment was no exception. The coach was well sprung, a regal black picked out with silver. The driver wore black, as well. The groom, who rode on the box with him, was enjoying the fact that people were peeking out their doors and windows at the arrival. Though he'd complained for the last day and a half about the miserable weather, the miserable roads and the miserable pace, he felt better knowing that the journey was at an end and that he'd be left to tend to his horses.
”Here, boy.” The driver pulled up the steaming horses and gestured to a boy who stood beside the road, ogling the coach and sucking his finger.
”Where will I find MacGregor House?”
”Straight down this road and over the rise. You be looking for the English lord? That be his carriage?”
”You got that right.”
Pleased with himself, the boy gestured. ”He's there.”
The driver sent the horses into a trot.
Brigham was there to meet them himself. Braced against the cold, he stepped out as the coach pulled up. ”You took your sweet time.”
”Beg pardon, my lord. Weather held us up.”
Brigham waved a hand at the trunks. ”Bring those in. The stables are around the back, Jem. Settle the horses. Have you eaten?”
Jem, whose family had been with the Langstons for three generations, jumped down nimbly. ”Hardly a bite, milord. Wiggins here sets a mad pace.”
Appreciating the truth of it, Brigham grinned up at the driver. ”I'm sure there will be something hot in the kitchen. If you would-” He stopped as the coach door swung open and a personage more dignified than any duke stepped out.
”Parkins.” Parkins bowed. ”My lord.” Then he studied Brigham's attire, and his dour face changed. His voice, filled with mortification, quivered. ”Oh, my lord.”
Brigham cast a rueful glance at his torn sleeve. Undoubtedly Parkins would be more concerned with the material than with the wound beneath. ”As you see, I have need of my trunks. Now, what in blazes are you doing here?”
”You have a need for me, as well, my lord.” Parkins drew himself up. ”I knew I was right to come, and there can be no doubt of it. See that the trunks are put in Lord Ashburn's room immediately.”
Though the cold was seeping through his riding coat, Brigham planted himself. ”How did you come?”
”I met the coach yesterday, sir, after you and Mr. MacGregor had taken to horse.” A foot shorter than Brigham, and woefully thin, Parkins pushed his shoulders back. ”I will not be sent back to London, my lord, when my duty is here.”
”I don't need a valet, man. I'm not attending any b.a.l.l.s.”
”I served my lord's father for fifteen years, and my lord for five. I will not be sent back.”
Brigham opened his mouth, then shut it. Loyalty was impossible to argue with. ”Oh, come in, d.a.m.n you. It's freezing.”
Cloaked in dignity, Parkins ascended the stairs. ”I will see to my lord's unpacking immediately.” He gave a shudder as he studied his master's attire once more. ”Immediately. If I could persuade my lord to accompany me, I could have you suitably clad in a trice.”
”Later.” Brigham swung on his greatcoat. ”I want to check on the horses.” He strode down the steps, checked, then turned. ”Parkins, welcome to Scotland.” The faintest ghost of a smile touched the thin lips. ”Thank you, my lord.”
Jem the groom seemed well on the way to making himself and the horses at home. Brigham heard his cackling laughter as he pushed aside the wooden door.
”You're a right one, ain't you, Master MacGregor? Sure and Lord Ashburn has the best stable in London-England itself, for that matter- and it's me who's in charge of them.”
”Then I'll have you look at my mare, Jem, who'll be foaling soon.”
”Pleased to have a look at her I'll be-after I've seen to my loves here.”
”Jem.”
”Eh-” He turned and saw Brigham standing in a beam of thin winter light. ”Yes, sir, Lord Ashburn. I'll have everything set to rights in a twinkle.”
Brigham knew that Jem couldn't be faulted with horses, but he also had a free hand with the bottle and language the MacGregors might not deem proper for their youngest So he lingered, supervising the settling of his team.
”Fine horses they are, Lord Ashburn.” Malcolm had taken a hand in the grooming. ”I can drive very well, you know.”
”I wouldn't doubt it.” Brigham had stripped off his greatcoat and since his jacket was ruined in any case, he added his weight to the work.
”Perhaps we'll find an afternoon so you can show me?”
”Truly?” There was no quicker way to the boy's heart. ”I do n't think I could handle your coach, but we have a curricle.” He gave a manly sneer. ”Though my mother won't let me drive anything but the pony cart by myself.” ”You'll be with me, won't you?” Brigham swatted one of the horses'
flanks. ”They seem to be in good shape, Jem. Go have a look at Master MacGregor's mare.”
”Please, sir, would you look in on her, too? She's a beauty.”
Brigham laid a hand on Malcolm's shoulder. ”I'd be delighted to meet her.”
Satisfied he'd found a kindred spirit, Malcolm took Brigham's hand and led him through the stables. ”She's Betsy.” At the sound of her name, the mare poked her head over the stall door and waited to be rubbed.
”A lovely lady.” She was a roan, not beautifully distinguished, but dignified and trim enough. As Brigham lifted a hand to stroke her head, she p.r.i.c.ked up her ears and fixed him with a calm, questioning eye.
”She likes you.” The fact pleased Malcolm, as if he often trusted the opinions of animals over those of people.
Inside the stall, Jem went about his business in a calm, capable way that impressed the young Malcolm. Betsy stood tolerantly, sighing occasionally so that her heavy belly shook, and switching her tail.
”She'll be foaling soon,” Jem p.r.o.nounced. ”Another day or two by my guess.”
”I want to sleep in the stables, but Serena always comes and drags me back.”
”Don't fret about it, Jem's here now.” With that, Jem stepped out of the stall.
”But you will send word when it's time?”
Jem looked at Brigham for affirmation, got it and grinned. ”I'll send up a shout for you, never fear.” ”Could I impose on you to show Jem to the kitchen?” Brigham asked.
”He hasn't eaten.”
”I beg your pardon.” Abruptly proper, Malcolm straightened his shoulders. ”I'll see that the cook fixes you something right away. Good afternoon, my lord.”
”Brig.”
Malcolm grinned at the man, and at the hand he was offered. He shook it formally, then skipped out, calling for Jem to follow.
”A taking little scamp. If I may say so, milord?”
”You may. Jem, try to remember he's young and impressionable.” At Jem's blank expression, Brigham sighed. ”If he begins to swear like my English groom, the ax will fall on me. He has a sister who would love to wield it.”